


Finding Vonnegut

by elementalv



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-18
Updated: 2009-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementalv/pseuds/elementalv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean will deny it to his dying breath (and has, come to think of it), but the truth is that more than crappy motels even, libraries feel like home to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Vonnegut

**Author's Note:**

> Follows episode 5x02 — _Good God, Y'All_.

Dean will deny it to his dying breath (and has, come to think of it), but the truth is that more than crappy motels even, libraries feel like home to him. They were convenient places for Dad to drop him and Sam off for a few hours while he went and did whatever it was he had to do. Dean spent a lot of time in libraries during the summer months as a kid, and when he wasn’t looking at the cool books (Dinosaurs! Spiders!), Sammy was hauling him along to story time, since that was always his favorite place to be. Dean’s, too, when they could get away with sitting in on it, because when he listened to some library lady or another read from a book, he could almost feel like he was sitting next to Mom again while she read to him, her belly big with Sam, Sam kicking out every so often, and Dean poking back at him.

Some things never change.

And that includes Dean’s fondness for libraries. The one he’s in right now, him and Sammy would have loved it when they were kids. The children’s section is almost as big as the adult section — maybe bigger — and it’s got all kinds of things for kids to play with and touch and move and sit on. Story time is going on now, and there are a bunch of two- and three-year-old kids staring up at the library lady while she reads to them. The moms (and more than a few dads, because the economy sucks donkey balls in the middle of an apocalypse) are standing around the edge of the circle, talking quietly, keeping an eye on things. It’s protection of a sort, but not great, and Dean thinks seriously about coming back later, after the library closes, to add some real protection to that part of the building. But right now, he has to move away from the children’s area and go back to the local history section, because one of the other library ladies is eyeing him like he’s a child molester looking to get a fix.

The problem with going back to the local history section is that to get there, he has to pass by the general fiction for adults, and Dean, without thinking about it, scans the stacks. Before he knows it, he’s pulling _Slaughterhouse-Five_ off the shelf. He was thirteen when he found Vonnegut, thanks to a library lady — he never could bring himself to call them librarians — in Vermont. He’d parked Sam in the children’s section after introducing him to Dewey decimal section 569.7 — dinosaurs — then headed into the adult section of the library. The library in Vermont was too small for a separate teen section, but that didn’t bother Dean any. He’d discovered _The Hobbit_ two states back and was curious about what else he might find in fiction. One helpful library lady later, Dean had a reading list in hand and the start of a life-long, secret addiction to the written word. Secret, because as much as Dad admired libraries for the information they held, he thought reading fiction was a waste of time. As far as Dean was concerned, what Dad didn’t know wouldn’t kill him, so he kept his habit quiet — so quiet that Sam still, to this day, doesn’t have a clue about how much Dean has actually read.

The thought of Sam is enough to sour Dean’s stomach. He replaces the Vonnegut and goes to find what he was looking for in the first place. It doesn’t take long to track it down, and he’s taking notes when a text message arrives. He stares at it for a moment before responding, and a few seconds later, Castiel shows up.

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice gruff. “The church was deconsecrated back in the eighties, but the window’s still there. Shouldn’t be a problem to get to it.”

“Good.” Castiel, who never used to look so uncertain, bites his lip and says, “About Sam. I know this separation is —”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Dean says, in a tone of voice meant to cut Castiel off at the knees. Too bad it doesn’t work.

“You trusted Sam to do the right thing, much as I trusted Zachariah’s judgment.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Dean mutters.

“Zachariah is my brother; he was my guide and mentor. For thousands of years, we fought together, raised our voices together in praise of God and His creation, and I trusted him to carry out God’s will. To find that long-held trust ground to dust under Zachariah’s heel — you are correct. It is not the same thing.”

“Jesus.” Dean knows, sort of, that angels are different, but he hasn’t realized until now just how much the same they are.

“You, at least, have the comfort of knowing that Sam has recognized his own arrogant greed for power,” Castiel says, his voice low and tight, each word a blow to Dean. “His acknowledgment of his weakness is an important first step for him. It means you have reason to hope that he will learn to turn away from that path, to hope that he will fight at your side again. I have no such hope.”

“Cas, I’m sorry. I —”

He shakes his head and says, “Don’t. Please. We both — I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. It was unkind.”

Dean looks down at his notes, unable to look at Castiel for the moment, and when he’s sure he has everything he needs, he closes the book and puts it on the cart. He knows he could put it back in the right place on his own, but he also knows from long years of experience that library ladies prefer to put the books back themselves. One of them — Mrs. Hampton in Joplin — told him it was so they could check the shelves and make sure everything else was in order. He was ten years old when he learned that, and he made sure that Sam knew it too. To this day, Sam still puts books on a cart to be reshelved, and Dean wonders sometimes if he remembers who taught him to do that.

Castiel is already turning to leave when Dean suddenly asks, “Do I really?”

The thing that Dean likes most about Castiel is that he doesn’t pretend he isn’t reading Dean’s mind. He answers, “Yes. You do have reason to hope. The fact that Sam recognizes his own susceptibility may well be his saving grace.”

“Where —” Dean shakes his head and asks a different question. “Where do you want to wait?”

“There’s a restaurant near here. A Coney Island. It serves —”

“Chili dogs,” Dean says with relief and more than a little hunger. “You had a chili dog yet?”

“No. Not yet. I suspect that’s about to change, though.” His voice sounds a little lighter now, and Dean is grateful for that. Neither of them have much to be happy about, but there’s no reason for them to drag each other down if they don’t have to.

“That it is, Cas. That it is,” Dean says, clapping his shoulder.

He takes a last look around the library as they walk out. It’s a modern building filled with children and adults and an army of library ladies who smile at everyone and don’t try to do anything but smile at noisy children. It’s a good place in a small town, and more than anything, Dean wants to make sure it stays in one piece. He’d feel better if Sam — Dean cuts that thought off. Sam is where he needs to be right now, and that isn’t with Dean. But Castiel thinks there’s reason to hope that Sam won’t be gone for long, and Dean hangs onto that thought as he nods to the library ladies at the front desk.


End file.
